


Alone Can't Protect Me Anymore

by The_Necessity_of_Darkness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Usage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Divorce, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Scars, Self-Harm, Torture, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Necessity_of_Darkness/pseuds/The_Necessity_of_Darkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was a bit not good, as of late. John had lost so much, including Sherlock, who had a part of the doctor strapped to himself. Then, Sherlock waltzed back into his life, like he had every right. He thought it fair to punch the git at least once.</p><p>[Repost from Fanfiction.net]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Great Escape

Sherlock supposed he understood now. Understood the appeal of suicide, plain as day, as if the very enigma that is suicide had been conjured out of thin air in an attempt to deem the act unacceptable. Suicide is a last resort, a thing no one ever plans on doing or even wishes to do.  _No_. Suicide isn't a wish. Victims of suicide never wish for the cards they're dealt. They merely want to be whisked away, carried to a place and time without the accumulation of all their pain and despair.

Suicide is an escape, an escape from responsibility and guilt and anguish; and life.

Victims of suicide don't want to take responsibility. They don't won't to be burdened with guilt; so they end themselves as quickly as they can. They make it impossible to feel everything they're feeling in favor of offing themselves before they're even able to feel  _anything_. They know that if all they do is slit their wrists in a fit of desolation that they, inevitably, will feel the rush of guilt, no matter how hard they try to hold it back. And then, after they slit their wrists, the resolve to pain themselves more by committing suicide would fall away completely. They would already know the hurt they caused their family to feel, and they wouldn't,  _couldn't_ , do it. Guilt would pile on their shoulders and they'd be forced to abide, the vile feeling seeping into their bones and reigning over their mind.

So, more suicide cases are happened upon than slit wrists.

And, oh, how Sherlock wished his suicide could be like theirs. To just jump from heights so unfathomable and let everything else fall away but himself and the sky. Let himself be whisked away, like so many others plan. Because the 'suicide' he had to endure wasn't anything like that of any other. There wasn't death, nor blood, nor the cessation of a life.

Just a jump. But, oh, that jump meant so much.

It was all a sham: the blood, the body, the death. Only the jump was real. Yes, he'd jumped...

But he survived, unlike all the other victims of suicide, for it was a trick. A sick one, at that. He had to fake his death and put the one he appreciated most through such...insurmountable agony. He had to hear John's desperate rambling next to his ear as he had lain on the cold concrete, pseudo limp with blood, not his own, soaking his clothes. He'd felt John's hand, pressed to his skin, quivering fervently, shaky and cold. He had taken a peek at John and saw such anguish caught in his teary gaze. Such affection and care, yet anger and confusion.

Despite him wanting to do it so much, lying in a puddle of red liquid mixed with rain and tears, he couldn't possibly vomit. Because that would  _jeopardize_  the  _mission_. And, although he had loathed that situation, caught between his life and his mission, he promised his work to help would always come first. And he knew what he was doing wouldn't seem much like help, to John, but he had to, Sherlock knew. Because, although John was blind to it, he was doing the most help by 'dying'.

Yet, although the detective knew he was, most  _definitely_ , helping, he also realized that he was derailing John. When your best friend fakes their death and doesn't tell you anything about it, he supposed anyone would get angry at that; well, except for himself. Personally, the sleuth wouldn't mind John faking his death if it were to save him and the doctor's friend's lives. But, most people weren't as logical as him, and so, he already knew John would be angry with him. But, Sherlock had to admit, there actually is some sort of rationality in being mad.

Sherlock knew many things. He knew he could be annoying, insufferable, cynical, condescending, cruel, rude, and cold-hearted, among other things. He knew people thought he was a psychopath and a freak and a cretin, maybe even a bad man. He knew people thought he had no emotional, kind, or affectionate bone in his body. That he had no heart. But he knew they were wrong; he had a heart, not just the functioning organ, but an  _actual_  heart, filled with every emotion anyone else feels. Now, the detective knew he may never be able to prove that he,  _indeed_ , did feel, but he would always know, and he hoped John knew.

He also wished John could know he was alive, that he hadn't really committed suicide, just slit his wrists. He wished his friend- _best_  friend- would know just how bad he was feeling in his  _heart_. Because it was the truth; Sherlock felt awful and solemn and broken. Really, the detective figured, after the fall, he was left just as broken as John. A different sort of brokenness, but broken all the same.

A slight crunch of loake boots smashing autumn leaves sounded in Sherlock's ears, accompanied by wisps of chilling wind and slightly ragged breaths, interrupting his musings. From his position behind an engraved tombstone upon a slight hill, the sleuth spotted the figure of John Watson, tromping towards an area shrouded in, still green, trees and an air of reverence. The ex-army doctor stopped before the newly-placed tombstone under one tree, kicking the dirt with his work boots and grasping at the lapels of his jacket, fidgeting awkwardly. A deadly silence pooled around the graveyard, the quiet seemingly echoing in both their ears. And then, John's voice pierced the frigid air with a softness Sherlock had never witnessed.

Patting the edge of the tombstone lightly, John strained to speak. "You told me once that you weren't a hero...there were times when I didn't even think you were human," the man choked out, leaning back some from the waist-height slab of stone. "But let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human, human being that I've ever known," he continued, voice cracking slightly at the end of his admission,"and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie...so there."

Sherlock spied quietly and solemnly, hearing the thick and hoarse quality of his blogger's voice. John's lips parted slightly, then, as if rethinking his statement, closed again.

"I was... _so_  alone...and I owe you so much...," he admitted, pausing eerily. "But please, there's just one more thing... _one more thing_...one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he rasped, gaze averted from the tombstone marking the supposed loss of his friend's soul. The detective shifted forward slightly, heart beat rising vaguely. "Don't. Be. Dead...would you do that...just for me? Just _stop_  it," the doctor pleaded, tears pricking at his tawny eyes. " _Stop this_..."

And then, with the rustle of fabric and a gust of wind, John left as quickly as he came. The sleuth slowly rose from behind his hiding place, peering at the man with sympathy in his usually cold eyes. Then, turning towards where his friend had recently stood, his eyes fixated on the ominous title carved in the slab of stone.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**.

Finally, miraculously, tearing his eyes away from the stone, his light eyes tailed John's retreating form, sheening with unshed tears. As droplets of rain starting falling softly from the dark clouds rolling overhead, the detective gently whispered,"I promise, John...I'll stop it; for you..."

"Eventually...," he muttered in a final tone, striding in the opposite direction of his blogger. Before exiting the cemetery, he glanced back, coat and scarf whipping violently in the wind. He caught the very distant figure of John Watson, his one and only true companion, tromp off with a slight limp and both hands held close, trembling as his chest heaved with every, assumed, sob.

As the world's only consulting detective (thought to be dead) exited the field of the deceased and slabs of stone, coat spanning behind him and eyes staring straight ahead, John Watson entered his waiting cab, preparing to start  _trying_  to find a way to live his life, Sherlock-free.


	2. Different, but the Same

As Mycroft prepared Sherlock's departure to complete his mission, the detective was left with a week before he had to leave. It'd already been two weeks since the sleuth's supposed death, and he hadn't went out of his way to see John. He just wasn't sure if his heart could take what it saw. After just the glimpse he had of how John acted while he was 'playing dead', he was sure he didn't want to witness John then, in the aftermath of his death. So, the younger Holmes brother stayed as far away from Angelo's and grocery stores and cafes as he could, just so he was absolutely sure his and John's paths wouldn't cross.

But now, knowing how little time he possessed, the detective spent the entire Tuesday of the week that remained to find his flatmate.

Torrents of wind swirled over the street's tall buildings as the sound of cab horns and gaggles of chattering pedestrians could be heard. Sherlock strode down the pavement, causing small puddles of rainwater to ripple as his opaque shoes touched the liquid. Small droplets of rain accompanied the strong winds and distant crackles of thunder as the detective stopped upon the front steps of his apartment, 221 Baker Street. Leaning back slightly, the elegant man peered through the apartment window, seeing drawn curtains and no lights. Which, of course, made him remember when his and John's apartment would be lively with lights, tea, and his violin playing. The place was so bland and blank now.

The sleuth grumbled, frustrated, under his breath as he slowly stepped backwards and continued on his way down Baker Street. Statistically speaking, since Sherlock knew John wasn't in their-his-apartment, he would most likely be either at the clinic, grocery store, or pub. But those statistics were based on a normal day (as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes could get), and the detective couldn't remember the last day John had had a normal day. Probably since before he died.

So, the detective assumed-no,  _knew_  John was at the cemetery. Sherlock eagerly glanced at his side, awaiting the,"Oh, how'd you figure that one out? My tan line had to have given it away, right?" Yet, he only heard silence as his temporary smile fell, along with his brief happiness. He wasn't sure how he'd forgotten John was no longer there; he supposed it was just another thing he seemed to have deleted.

Ultimately, the sleuth knew he'd ruin the doctor. If it were any other man than John, he couldn't care less about how he affected a mere imbecile. Yet this was no ordinary, everyday, average man, albeit John seemed that way to most; completely average and at his most mundane. The belief that John was anything less than extraordinary was a complete and utter lie. This was the sweet, charismatic, lovable, friendly, selfless, loyal, light-hearted, humorous John. This was the short-tempered, battle-scarred, idiotic, oblivious, soldier and doctor. No mere, usual, common man, but a...well, how would you say...a diamond in the rough. He was the one puzzle, one case, that Sherlock was never able to piece together.

As Sherlock sauntered through the graveyard's gothic gates, wind whipping around him as he approached his tombstone, he spotted the outline of the slumped man he was once so close to. That closeness was probably gone, now, the sleuth figured. He looked at John, and all he saw now was an average man, everything Dr. John Watson had never been and never should've been.

He crept closer and could see the change very cleary displayed on the ex-soldier's face. Blood shot eyes fell upon Sherlock's marked slab of stone and tense hands hung by the doctor's sides. A blue flower peeked from inside his clenched fists as his shoulders shook with a subtle strength that knocked Sherlock back. He realized that John was crying, but not in the conventional sense. The man's shoulders were shaking ever so slightly and he wasn't sniffling or fidgeting. Tears just kept falling soundlessly.

Then a snap.

It was a clean, crisp sound: the snapping of the flower's stem. The noise was so abrupt and loud, yet oddly soft and nearly nonexistent. John's calloused fingers rubbed at the blue petals, tearing and mutilating the soft flower and depositing shreds of color on the awaiting, wet soil below.

Then, the sleuth witnessed what was left of the flower flutter to the ground, carried downwards in a spiral of gentle wind. The broken stem rooted itself in the dirt as the sky-colored petals and green leaves scattered all around the deadly quiet shrine, dedicated to the amazing Sherlock Holmes.

And then, Sherlock watched John weep. He sounded like a wounded baby animal, begging for mercy, or something of the like, to strike him down quickly before he did it himself. He looked like a cornered, trapped bear. Usually so wild, untamable, fierce, aways looking so large and confident. Yet, when a bear is trapped, they lose that facade; they fold into themselves and become a shell, and suddenly, they look so small.

John didn't stop crying, not until he looked to the sky and swatted away the offending tears. Not until he mumbled,"God, no..." Not until he slowly knelt down in front of the grave and gently brushed his head against the tombstone's surface. Not until all the birds that had halted their songs at his hysterics started chattering, once more, as if they forgot to remember he was sad. Or maybe they remembered he was sad, and what caused that despair, and why that sorrow would continue. Oh, no, that couldn't be the case: Sherlock must've  _really_  been deeply affected if he was losing all logic and assuming birds knew John was sad. Or that they were trying to cheer him up.

No, singing is only a bird's nature; something they're meant to do. Just like Sherlock, a bird has a purpose. Those birds are meant to accomplish the task of singing, as he was meant to kill Moriarty's web of snipers and return to John. Just as Doctor Watson was meant to think his best friend was dead and grieve like he meant it, which he did.

And then, for the first time since his death, Sherlock really  _looked_  at John Watson. No- _observed_  him.

Black bags encircled the soldier's eyes, obviously signaling sleep deprivation. The doctor's hair and stubble were unkempt, signifying that John considered such inconsequential things(he usually considered important) as shaving and combing to be pointless. John's shirt wasn't buttoned all the way and looked like it'd been worn excessively, not laundered for at least a few days. The blogger was leaning heavily on one side, showing that his psychosomatic limp was gradually returning. The soldier's usually rigid and army-like posture was now lax and his shoulders were slumped forward. More wrinkles marred John's face than last. He kept gulping and shifting. His hygiene was slipping.

He wasn't the same John. At least, not the one Sherlock remembered.

Or maybe the John he merely avoided noticing.

The one he knew was there, but denied his attention.

The one he deleted, for fear of remembering how much the world actually affected John.

How broken John could get.


	3. Of Milk, Blood, and Mimicry

He hadn't meant to stay at the graveyard so long. He hadn't meant to stare at his tombstone. He hadn't meant to watch John drive away as a passenger in a cab. He hadn't meant to pull his phone from his pocket. He hadn't meant to pull up John in his contacts. He hadn't meant to rapidly tap his keyboard. He hadn't meant to form a text.

And he, most  _definitely_ , had  _not_  meant to hit send.

_Don't forget the milk, John. And the blood samples from Bart's.-SH_

It was an odd text, the detective silently admitted, but he knew he sent the message because of a sort of familiarity. That was what their string of messages usually consisted of. They usually went something like:

**I've gotten the groceries today. We shouldn't need more for a week.-JW**

_My eyeballs, too?-SH_

**Yes, Sherlock. Eyeballs and all.-JW**

But then, the sense of familiarity and warmth at the text turned into mortification and anxiety. What if John knew he was alive now? That knowledge could be relayed and brought to Moriarty, then John would be put into even more danger! That would mean causing John to grieve would serve zero purpose! That would mean John could get killed! The whole point of 'dying' was to save John from the battlefield, not draw him closer to it!

See, this was what John excelled at: keeping Sherlock in line. Without John, there wasn't any semblance of order. His Mind Palace was being bombarded by armies and dragons, but lacked guards and a sane king, without John.

He wasn't kidding when he'd said he'd be lost without his blogger.

If this situation were different, the doctor would've reminded him not to send the text. And Sherlock would've listened. For how intellectual Sherlock was, he could be incredibly thick, and he was made brutally aware of that fact.

_Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way?_

Now, the sleuth had screwed it all up. He'd made a mess of the plan! Even if he found a way to delete the text from John's phone, it would make the whole situation more suspicious, and John would've already read it.

He really was spectacularly ignorant, wasn't he?

* * *

_Ping_. The doctor's phone vibrated in his pocket, drawing John's attention away from his game of zoning out. He groped around for the boisterous device, grabbing it from his pocket and pressing the power button. Seeing the new message symbol displayed on his texting app, he tapped the icon and scoured for the sender. He expected Lestrade, possibly even Mycroft, to text him. Heck, even Molly or Mrs. Hudson seemed plausible( _did Mrs. Hudson even have a phone?_ ).

He never expected it to be from Sherlock, though.

_Don't forget the milk, John. And the blood samples from Bart's.-SH_

For a moment, the ex-soldier wasn't sure whether to feel hopeful or broken. On one hand, it was Sherlock he was talking about; Sherlock always found a way to do the impossible, didn't he? On the other, Watson knew he'd watched his best friend leap from that building. His hand was pressed onto Holmes' wrist when there wasn't the slightest pulse. His eyes were locked onto the detective's when they were rolled back in his head and had sheened with murkiness: dead fish eyes. He had kneeled in the pool of blood around the sleuth's body, looked into his expressionless face, practically smelled the grip of death. After all, he had served enough time in Afghanistan to know what death was like, hadn't he?

When John couldn't decide what to feel out of the two, he settled for the middle: he let anxiety flood every corner of his head. Questions tumbled to the forefront of his mind as his eyes repeatedly darted towards the text. How? Why? Who? Moriarty? Sherlock? What?

Also: why milk and blood?

* * *

Today was the day, the detective realized, with startling clarity, that he would have to leave. Mycroft had pulled his wires, manipulated all the elements and events, just so Sherlock would be able to do what was necessary. Sherlock also realized this was the first time he would be killing someone; well, except himself. It was an odd burden to carry, knowing he would ultimately be able to play his targets like pawns in a tactical game of chess. It was strange thinking of ways to kill the men, but he knew he'd be able to look at the targets as merely checkpoints in his journey of returning to John. That was his motivation, after all: Dr. John Watson.

Somehow, the younger Holmes brother had talked Mycroft into letting him see John one last time, although the meeting would be quite one-sided. "The British Government" promised an hour of available time to spend as he wished before his departure, and, of course, he already knew the person he'd spend that time with.

As Sherlock walked through the city's streets, mundane and familiar noises ringing in his ears, he picked up his pace as he neared the cemetery. Turning up his coat collar and stuffing his gloved hands into his coat pockets, his blue-striped scarf waving in the wind, Sherlock could've laughed at how normal the scene he was partaking in seemed. If only he weren't leaving and John wasn't kneeling by his tombstone.

If only John could  _understand_.

Sherlock inconspicuously crept through the open gates, of which resembled the shape of sharpened bones, seeing John crouched by his grave. Bobbing his head and glancing out of his peripheral vision, catching sight of a row of shrubbery close by, he quietly sneaked behind it. Looking up, the detective caught a glimpse of John.

He sort of wished he hadn't.

The image of a disheveled John Watson, kneeling by his grave with shaky hands and crying eyes, was slowly burning into his retinas, forming a memory he'd never be able to wave away. The doctor rose slowly, knees buckling slightly as he stepped away from the patch of dirt before the slab of stone. Sherlock noticed the blogger swallow thickly, a lump caught in his throat as he leaned heavily on one side, psychosomatic limp evidently returning. John opened his mouth, as if to speak, yet nothing came out but a hitched breath and a long, tired sigh.

Sherlock noted that the smile John usually wore, and that he liked more than logic could justify, was no longer adorning his face. Black encircled his eyes and his hair was jutting peculiarly in different directions. Subsequently, Sherlock remembered all the times John had exited the shower, hair spiked wildly. He'd always thought his blogger's hair was similar to the spines of a hedgehog. It would've made him smile internally under different circumstances, but now, it made him  _physically_   _cringe_.

And then, Sherlock finally observed John's clothes, and his heart was oddly touched, yet shattered by them.

The ex-soldier wore a gray-striped scarf around his neck, covered slightly by the upturned collar of his flowing, black coat. Leather gloves were stretched over his hands, similar to Sherlock's own. Holmes didn't quite know how to feel about the display of obvious mimicry from his best friend. It was...heart wrenching to see his blogger so ensnared in grief that he had started dressing like the detective, but also oddly endearing. John's appearance also made guilt pull at Sherlock's stomach in a way he wasn't used to.

A hoarse voice, the sleuth hadn't expected to hear, drifted through the air, occasionally pausing to string its words together.

"Sherlock...," Watson spoke breathlessly, linking his hands in front of his torso,"I...I won't give up on you. Not now, not for awhile: not until I know what...happened was real, at least. That text-from yesterday: I'm not sure whether to get hopeful or feel broken."

"I'm sure if you were here, you'd just proclaim the answer as obvious and figure it as simple, dismiss it; find another  _more_ _important_  case to occupy your time-"

Sherlock didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear about what he'd done anymore. He didn't want to hear what thoughts and feelings his text from yesterday had provoked. Yet, he didn't want to leave, and most certainly wanted to hear John's voice, just for a little longer.

Yet Sherlock blocked out his friend's voice, focusing on listening to the distracting ring in his ears instead of his blogger's desolate mumbling. Drawing back from the row of bushes, adjusting his trademark coat and giving John one last sidelong, melancholy glance, Sherlock started for the graveyard's exit. As the detective dejectedly strode back towards whence he came, wanting desperately to leave the face of his despondent friend behind, the army doctor seemed to sob with more fervor the farther away he strayed.

 


End file.
